


Darkness in You is Light

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ordeal of Knighthood, canon character death, flaws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 14:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12533484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: After Joren fails his Ordeal, Roald worries about his own dark side.





	Darkness in You is Light

Darkness in You is Light

When the door to the Chamber of the Ordeal swung open of its own eerie accord, a frigid draft swept through the chapel, swaying ladies’ skirts and gentlemen’s robes. Roald wrapped the cape he had draped around his shoulders more tightly around him, trying to pretend that he didn’t feel the cold as he stared into the heart of darkness that was the Chamber of the Ordeal, a blackness he would soon be stepping into for his own dance with whatever demons lurked in the shadows of the Chamber. 

Roald couldn’t have articulated what he would have expected to occur when the Chamber door opened—whether he thought Joren would emerge torn with guilt and ready to confess his crimes in a royal audience in a desperate attempt to escape the Chamber’s harsh justice or if he believed that Joren would saunter out of the Chamber haughty as ever—but he was still shocked when Joren’s rigid body fell out of the Chamber. 

“Did he faint?” whispered one lady in the pew in front of Roald to another behind her flowered fan borrowed from Yamani fashion, but Roald could see in Joren’s blank stare and expressionless features that Joren was dead as any corpse in a crypt. 

The darkness in the Chamber had devoured Joren, leaving only the empty shell of his body, and Joren had died alone in terror with nobody to hear whether he screamed or stayed silent as a grave. The Chamber must have shown Joren the evil inside him, and it had killed him. 

Roald was surprised at how Joren’s death cut him. Joren had been a spiteful bully, but Roald had never wanted him dead. He had hoped that Joren would become a true knight who lived in serve to the realm. There had been potential for redemption and maybe even goodness for Joren while his heart beat, but now that he no longer breathed, that hope was gone, and his life wasted. 

“He’s dead.” Roald’s lips were so numb that he didn’t know how he managed to speak. 

“It’s hard to lose a year mate.” Lord Imrah clasped Roald’s wrist and steered him out of the pew and then the chapel, which was starting to echo to the arches with the gasps and shrieks of those who had realized Joren was not among the living. 

“Joren and I weren’t close.” Roald struggled for some sense of coherency as they left the chapel and entered a hallway lined with stained glass windows that sparkled in a wintry gray dawn that felt devoid of any promise. “Joren was a petty bully who needed to grow up if it’s not speaking ill of the dead to say so, but I wanted to see him grow up, my lord. I didn’t want to see him dead.” 

“I know, Roald.” Lord Imrah slid an arm around Roald’s shaking shoulders. “You wouldn’t wish death on anyone.” 

“Sir.” Roald stared into a blood red pane of stained glass as they passed a tribute to Mithros, god of war. “Do you think a whole year of people can be rotten?” 

Roald was starting to fear that was the case with him and his cohorts, who seemed cursed by the gods when it came to the turbulent times they had been thrust into since conception. They had been born and raised in the midst of one of the most severe famines in the history of Tortall, and maybe that had stunted them as surely as if they had been weaned on poisonous milk. If the famine hadn’t corrupted them, then it must have been the real life return of monsters that should have been confined to nightmares when they were supposed to be enjoying the innocence of youth. Perhaps Roald’s generation had been broken when the barrier dividing the Immortals from humanity had shattered…

“No, of course not, Your Highness.” Lord Imrah’s cheeks yellowed in the light streaming through the stained glass windows as they neared the end of the corridor. “A man is a product of his own choices, not his generation, and while every generation always accuses the following one of being evil incarnate, the mix of good fruit and bad apples does seem to remain constant year after year. It’s a personal thing, not a generational one.” 

“Two of my year mates failed,” Roald pointed out in a hushed voice as he and Lord Imrah made their way into a quiet courtyard blanketed with snow that crackled under their boots when they walked down a stone pathway dotted with ice. “That’s never happened before, my lord.” 

“Your year is larger than most,” Lord Imrah reminded him. “Eleven squires is a high number to get through their Ordeals without incident. The odds wouldn’t be in favor of it.” 

“Passing the Ordeal isn’t really a matter of odds, though, is it, sir?” Roald shot his knightmaster a sidelong glance, aware that he was bordering the forbidden territory of asking what horror awaited inside the Chamber, but when Lord Imrah didn’t chide him, he went on with more strength, “It’s about what’s inside us, because can’t the Chamber see what’s in our hearts and minds then judge us by what it sees?” 

“The Chamber separates the wheat from the chaff.” Lord Imrah’s haunted face suggested he had never left the Chamber. “It burns the chaff and harvests the wheat.” 

“The Chamber seems to be merciful and merciless at the same time.” Roald was reflecting that although the Chamber had brutally battered a confession from Vinson and had killed Joren, it had also gotten justice for Vinson’s victims (who would never have received fairness in courts where Roald was well-aware that noble privilege was favored over commoners’ rights) and prevented Joren from bullying anyone ever again. The Chamber’s methods were extreme but there was no denying their effectiveness. “It’s almost as if the Chamber forces people to face what’s worst inside them, the hidden parts of ourselves that we don’t want to see, but a knightmaster has to see those sides too.” 

Bitterness blazed through Roald as he thought that Vinson’s and Joren’s knightmasters must have seen the faults and cruelties in their charges and done nothing to curtail them. He almost choked on anger as he asked, “Sir, what’s my worst flaw?” 

“What do you believe it is, squire?” Lord Imrah waved a hand at an iron bench under a balcony decorated with sharp icicles and thorny holly. 

“You’ve told me that I worry too much, my lord.” Roald waited until after his knightmaster had sat to join Lord Imrah on the bench. “I’ve tried to work on that.” 

“Ah.” Lord Imrah’s mouth twitched into a mildly teasing smile that drew a flicker of a grin from Roald. “You mean you’ve worried about worrying too much.” 

“I know I can be stiff sometimes, sir.” Roald bit his lip. “I can be too shy, not speaking up when I should.” 

“Those things are true, Roald.” Lord Imrah cupped Roald’s chin between his palms, and it was only then that Roald noticed he had ducked his head. “I won’t mince words about that, but I won’t deny how diligently you’ve worked overcome those shortcomings either, though neither of them is your worst flaw. Your worst flaw is one you don’t see or if you see believe is a strength.” 

“Oh.” Roald chewed his lip again as he contemplated this. “What is my worst flaw then, my lord?” 

“You’ve been a good squire, Roald of Conte. No knight could ask for a better one, and you’ll make me proud that I was part of your beginning.” Lord Imrah squeezed the nape of Roald’s neck, and Roald wondered what dreadful fault he was about to hear he possessed since Lord Imrah seemed to feel the need to soften the blow with ample praise. “Perhaps your greatest flaw is simply revealed in this: you wish to please me too much.” 

“Squires are supposed to please their knightmasters, sir.” Roald’s forehead furrowed, and he must not have been able to stop the baffled hurt from seeping into his tone for Lord Imrah gave his neck another reassuring squeeze. 

“Don’t give yourself wrinkles so young.” Lord Imrah tapped the indents in Roald’s forehead. “The darkness in you is light. It’s a testimony to your character that you try to please everyone always—that you’re forever committed to being all things to all people—but you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that is impossible because sometimes being one thing to somebody prohibits you from being something to someone else. You’ll have to learn which obligation deserves priority in any given situation. You’ll need to accept that is wisdom and not wickedness.” 

All things to all people. The phrasing resounded inside Roald’s eardrums as the epiphany that he had spent most of his life adhering to this philosophy ripped through him. Ever since he was a toddler, his parents had always demanded that he do his duty, assuring him that when he did his duty he was a good boy and teaching him that the only way to make them proud was by fulfilling his myriad obligations. He couldn’t remember a time that he hadn’t been dedicated to filling whatever role anyone expected him to assume in any situation: the polite prince, the fair and responsible heir, the devoted son, the faithful and gentle fiance, the obedient squire, and the list could go on for leagues. Roald tried to be all these different people at once and sometimes felt he succeeded at being none while his personality became a blank slate for others to read and write according to their desires, and he remained locked in expectations that granted him the maneuverability of manacles. 

“People won’t love me if I don’t please them.” Roald admitted his worst fear as he gazed up at his knightmaster. “Worse still, they won’t respect me if they don’t believe I fulfill my responsibilities to them.” 

“I can’t speak for people in general.” Lord Imrah hugged Roald against his chest, and Roald felt safe between those strong, supportive arms. “Speaking for myself, though, I’ll always love you, Roald, even if you displease me or fail to fulfill your duties, but I reserve the right to reprimand you for such lapses. That’s a knightmaster’s prerogative.” 

“I reserve the right to sulk if you scold, my lord,” countered Roald dryly. “That’s a squire’s prerogative.”


End file.
